WHEN Alfred returned to the living room he was followed by his secretary, who carried two well-filled satchels. His temper was not improved by the discovery that he had left certain important papers at his office. Dispatching his man to get them and to meet him at the station with them, he collected a few remaining letters from the drawer of the writing table, then uneasy at remaining longer under the same roof with Zoie, he picked up his hat, and started toward the hallway. For the first time his eye was attracted by a thick layer of dust and lint on his coat sleeve. Worse still, there was a smudge on his cuff. If there was one thing more than another that Alfred detested it was untidiness. Putting his hat down with a bang, he tried to flick the dust from his sleeve with his pocket handkerchief; finding this impossible, he removed his coat and began to shake it violently.

It was at this particular moment that Zoie's small face appeared cautiously from behind the frame of the bedroom door. She was quick to perceive Alfred's plight. Disappearing from view for an instant, she soon reappeared with Alfred's favourite clothes-brush. She tiptoed into the room.

Barely had Alfred drawn his coat on his shoulders, when he was startled by a quick little flutter of the brush on his sleeve. He turned in surprise and beheld Zoie, who looked up at him as penitent and irresistible as a newly-punished child.

“Oh,” snarled Alfred, and he glared at her as though he would enjoy strangling her on the spot.

“Alfred,” pouted Zoie, and he knew she was going to add her customary appeal of “Let's make up.” But Alfred was in no mood for nonsense. He thrust his hands in his pockets and made straight for the outer doorway.

Smiling to herself as she saw him leaving without his hat, Zoie slipped it quickly beneath a flounce of her skirt. No sooner had Alfred reached the sill of the door than his hand went involuntarily to his head; he turned to the table where he had left his hat. His face wore a puzzled look. He glanced beneath the table, in the chair, behind the table, across the piano, and then he began circling the room with pent up rage. He dashed into his study and out again, he threw the chairs about with increasing irritation, then giving up the search, he started hatless toward the hallway. It was then that a soft babyish voice reached his ear.

“Have you lost something, dear?” cooed Zoie.

Alfred hesitated. It was difficult to lower his dignity by answering her, but he needed his headgear. “I want my hat,” he admitted shortly.

“Your hat?” repeated Zoie innocently and she glanced around the room with mild interest. “Maybe Mary took it.”

“Mary!” cried Alfred, and thinking the mystery solved, he dashed toward the inner hallway.

“Let ME get it, dear,” pleaded Zoie, and she laid a small detaining hand upon his arm as he passed.

“Stop it!” commanded Alfred hotly, and he shook the small hand from his sleeve as though it had been something poisonous.

“But Allie,” protested Zoie, pretending to be shocked and grieved.

“Don't you 'but Allie' me,” cried Alfred, turning upon her sharply. “All I want is my hat,” and again he started in search of Mary.

“But—but—but Allie,” stammered Zoie, as she followed him.

“But—but—but,” repeated Alfred, turning on her in a fury. “You've butted me out of everything that I wanted all my life, but you're not going to do it again.”

“You see, you said it yourself,” laughed Zoie.

“Said WHAT,” roared Alfred.

“But,” tittered Zoie.

The remnants of Alfred's self-control were forsaking him. He clinched his fists hard in a final effort toward restraint. “You'd just as well stop all these baby tricks,” he threatened between his teeth, “they're not going to work. THIS time my mind is made up.”

“Then why are you afraid to talk to me?” asked Zoie sweetly.

“Who said I was afraid?” demanded Alfred hotly.

“You ACT like it,” declared Zoie, with some truth on her side. “You don't want——” she got no further.

“All I want,” interrupted Alfred, “is to get out of this house once and for all and to stay out of it.” And again he started in pursuit of his hat.

“Why, Allie,” she gazed at him with deep reproach. “You liked this place so much when we first came here.”

Again Alfred picked at the lint on his coat sleeve. Edging her way toward him cautiously she ventured to touch his sleeve with the brush.

“I'll attend to that myself,” he said curtly, and he sank into the nearest chair to tie a refractory shoe lace.

“Let me brush you, dear,” pleaded Zoie. “I don't wish you to start out in the world looking unbrushed,” she pouted. Then with a sly emphasis she added teasingly, “The OTHER women might not admire you that way.”

Alfred broke his shoe string then and there. While he stooped to tie a knot in it, Zoie managed to perch on the arm of his chair.

“You know, Allie,” she continued coaxingly, “no one could ever love you as I do.”

Again Alfred broke his shoe lace.

“Oh, Allie!” she exclaimed with a little ripple of childish laughter, “do you remember how absurdly poor we were when we were first married, and how you refused to take any help from your family? And do you remember that silly old pair of black trousers that used to get so thin on the knees and how I used to put shoe-blacking underneath so the white wouldn't show through?” By this time her arm managed to get around his neck.

“Stop it!” shrieked Alfred as though mortal man could endure no more. “You've used those trousers to settle every crisis in our lives.”

Zoie gazed at him without daring to breathe; even she was aghast at his fury, but only temporarily. She recovered herself and continued sweetly:

“If everything is SETTLED,” she argued, “where's the harm in talking?”

“We've DONE with talking,” declared Alfred. “From this on, I act.” And determined not to be cheated out of this final decision, he again started for the hall door.

“Oh, Allie!” cried Zoie in a tone of sharp alarm.

In spite of himself Alfred turned to learn the cause of her anxiety.

“You haven't got your overshoes on,” she said.

Speechless with rage, Alfred continued on his way, but Zoie moved before him swiftly. “I'll get them for you, dear,” she volunteered graciously.

“Stop!” thundered Alfred. They were now face to face.

“I wish you wouldn't roar like that,” pouted Zoie, and the pink tips of her fingers were thrust tight against her ears.

Alfred drew in his breath and endeavoured for the last time to repress his indignation. “Either you can't, or you won't understand that it is extremely unpleasant for me to even talk to you—much less to receive your attentions.”

“Very likely,” answered Zoie, unperturbed. “But so long as I am your lawful wedded wife——” she emphasised the “lawful”—“I shan't let any harm come to you, if I can help it.” She lifted her eyes to heaven bidding it to bear witness to her martyrdom and looking for all the world like a stained glass saint.

“Oh, no!” shouted Alfred, almost hysterical at his apparent failure to make himself understood. “You wouldn't let any harm come to me. Oh, no. You've only made me the greatest joke in Chicago,” he shouted. “You've only made me such a laughing stock that I have to leave it. That's all—that's all!”

“Leave Chicago!” exclaimed Zoie incredulously. Then regaining her self-composure, she edged her way close to him and looked up into his eyes in baby-like wonderment. “Why, Allie, where are we going?” Her small arm crept up toward his shoulder. Alfred pushed it from him rudely.

“WE are not going,” he asserted in a firm, measured voice. “I am going. Where's my hat?” And again he started in search of his absent headgear.

“Oh, Allie!” she exclaimed, and this time there was genuine alarm in her voice, “you wouldn't leave me?”

“Wouldn't I, though?” sneered Alfred. Before he knew it, Zoie's arms were about him—she was pleading desperately.

“Now see here, Allie, you may call me all the names you like,” she cried with great self-abasement, “but you shan't—you SHAN'T go away from Chicago.”

“Oh, indeed?” answered Alfred as he shook himself free of her. “I suppose you'd like me to go on with this cat and dog existence. You'd like me to stay right here and pay the bills and take care of you, while you flirt with every Tom, Dick and Harry in town.”

“It's only your horrid disposition that makes you talk like that,” whimpered Zoie. “You know very well that I never cared for anybody but you.”

“Until you GOT me, yes,” assented Alfred, “and NOW you care for everybody BUT me.” She was about to object, but he continued quickly. “Where you MEET your gentlemen friends is beyond me. I don't introduce them to you.”

“I should say not,” agreed Zoie, and there was a touch of vindictiveness in her voice. “The only male creature that you ever introduced to me was the family dog.”

“I introduce every man who's fit to meet you,” declared Alfred with an air of great pride.

“That doesn't speak very well for your acquaintances,” snipped Zoie. Even HER temper was beginning to assert itself.

“I won't bicker like this,” declared Alfred.

“That's what you always say, when you can't think of an answer,” retorted Zoie.

“You mean when I'm tired of answering your nonsense!” thundered Alfred.